In the Silence when we hear the Call of Death
The Call of Death
When life in it's swing-had begun to roll like a toddler,
By the shrill of moan came the call of Death.
It passed like an old shrinking locomotive, just here,
And shook the ground, by its rustic fate.
I sprang-I ran, only to see the old seducer in its tricks glee,
While the men pleaded not to go, but return;
The plead, for an insult, the seducer thought it was,
And flung with its reaper, rumbling in raze.
O! For the moan ceased, and the calm repose came,
Yet, the stench lingered turned everyone breathless.
They held like me, the look of pitied being,
Prone to striping silence, when blast breaks.
O Bad Reaper! Has your aged-self not held your hands and taught,
That the ripe you must reap, and let the buds grow?
How your bunk at youth, and lapsed memory now, bitterly-
Has done much harm, then good.
© 2019 Anand Sandil